


Knock Knock

by Aerosheep



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Pirate England (Hetalia), Pirate Spain (Hetalia), Reminiscing, SpUk, The Spanish Armada, dressing up, kind of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28611000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerosheep/pseuds/Aerosheep
Summary: England gets a visitor on the 29th July
Relationships: England/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. Knock Knock

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia

A knock on the door.

England lowered his tea cup of Earl Grey tea and hissed like a prodded snake at the disturbance.

He opened the door just a slither.

And saw a pirate.

The blond nation immediately clicked the door closed again, leant his back against the painted wooden panels, and closed his eyes as if in prayer.

He felt the next few knocks reverberate through his rib-cage.

And then, a muffled, petulant voice:

“Hey! Let me in!”

For heaven’s sake. He had known who it was from the get-up but hearing the voice brought reality pouring down over his head like a tipped bucket of sewage water. 

“Arturo! I know you’re in there!”

If he didn’t open the door, the pest would only try and break in through his window.

Before he did so, however, he glided back onto his sitting room sofa, and carefully drank the rest of his tea.

And then he opened the door again.

He was met with such a beaming smile that he was sure that the man had swallowed the very sun, and now let it shine through the cracks of his teeth. 

A freak of nature really.

“Hola!”

“...hello”

Neither said anything more; England stood wondering how long he could ignore his impulse for good hospitality by blocking the doorway, and Spain stood wondering how much longer he could bear to hold his grin for, which was now tugging uncomfortably at the corners of his lips.

Spain cracked.

“You don’t seem very surprised.”

“At what? You? Your ridiculous costume? At the fact that America calls Japan up at 10 pm for bedtime stories?”

“You used to wear this ‘ridiculous costume’ too,”  
Spain frowned accusingly,  
“In case you’ve forgotten.”

Arthur was really not in the mood for this, maybe if Antonio had come a few hours later... it was 6:00 in the morning for God’s sake.

“You’re too grumpy to be surprised”

“Well noted, perhaps you should waste your time elsewhere then.”

For a second, Spain’s face looked scrunched and stubborn like Romano’s, and that was all the warning he got before the sunnier nation barged passed him into his home.

England span around to try and grab Spain’s sleeve, but Antonio had already shrugged the great antique coat from his shoulders, and Arthur was left standing, holding the faded material irritably in fisted hands.

Spain fished out his grin again and started climbing down the stairs to England’s cellar.

Arthur baulked,

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?!”

When he had clambered down to the basement himself, he found the other nation sifting searchingly through several large, wooden storage boxes.

Suddenly his fingers paused their rummaging, and his eyes shone in the dim light.

He pulled out a similar coat to the one he had just been wearing a moment ago.

The cloth was mottled with varying shades of red due to age, in some places it was a glaring vermillion, and in others a muted but rich Carmine, which looked almost as if the colour could have been accumulated from spills of blood. The cleanly cut shapes of ebony cuffs and lapels carved out the lean figure of the intended wearer, whilst a trickle of golden fastenings running down the length of the coat, gleamed like stolen jewels.

Spain was regarding the retired uniform with a glazed mix of contempt, admiration and exhilaration.

And then England remembered the month.

“July” he stated simply.

“July 29th”

“And why does this specific day matter?”

Spain scowled,  
“It’s the defeat of my Armada.”  
He said the words as well as possible through half-sealed lips.

Ah, still a touchy subject then, and what could be a better idea than to aggravate it.  
“Is this your so called ‘Invincible Armada’ that we’re talking about here?”

“A change of wind was all it was, pure luck!”

“Of course.”

Spain glanced down at England’s hands, which were still holding the other nation’s coat.

“You should put it on.”

“What? You want me to wear this flimsy relic?!”

“Yeah, why not, come on, it’s just for fun, and I’ll wear yours too.”

“The cheek of you! You can’t just turn up unannounced and—”

But Arthur came to a stuttering halt as he watched Spain wriggle into his own British military uniform, paying no attention to his seething host.

Well fine, if he was going to be that way, he wouldn’t be the bum of Spain’s teasing.

And with that thought England pushed his arms through the stiffened material of the Spanish military uniform, readjusting the fit with more care than the coat deserved, but he couldn’t really find it in himself to mishandle an antique.

Both redressed, the two nations stared at each other, taking trips down memory lane.

“This is childish” Arthur huffed, but Antonio merely beamed.

Wordlessly, they both reclimbed the cellar stairs, and Arthur grudgingly offered Spain tea or coffee.

“Coffee, please, cream and sugar”

Sickening. But he made the drink without further complaint.

“Gracias.”

Something had been bothering England since he had remembered the significance of the date.

“You normally despise me this time of year.”

“Like America does?”

“Wanker.”

“No, I mean, I never really despised you, not for a while anyway, I just didn’t like the reminder—”

“So they were temper tantrums.”

“—Or, your gloating.”

England shrugged, accepting his own propensity to rub Spain’s face in his centuries’ old defeat, but remained unapologetic.

“… they weren’t tantrums.”

“…”

Antonio swung one booted leg out out and kicked Arthur in the shin, making the blond man jerk and spill hot tea down his trouser legs. He leapt up.

“You bastard! You wouldn’t be grinning like that if tea had soiled your precious coat!”

Spain’s grin turned to stifled giggles, and then bouncing laughter as England stormed out the room.

“Hey, where are you going, Amigo?! It wasn’t that big of a deal!”

“To change my trousers!” came England’s faded voice as he trudged upstairs, “Entertain yourself, and don’t you dare spill anything else!”

Then, Spain lit up with a new idea, and he sped back down to the cellar to the box full of England’s pirate clothes, memorabilia and miscellanea. He hastily grabbed some trousers, a shirt, hat, boots and sword before racing upstairs to England’s bedroom.

He burst through the bedroom door intrusively, arms full of material, and was met with an outraged shriek from the undressing country, who currently had on only underwear, and was sifting through his chest of drawers for a dry pair of trousers. 

Ignoring Arthur’s protests to ‘get the bloody hell out’, Antonio sidled up to England and dumped the new pile of clothes in his arms.

“Wear these!”

“No!”

“Si!”

England fumed but Spain leant on the chest of drawers with his arms crossed triumphantly, blocking the shorter nation’s access to his normal clothes. 

“I won’t stop annoying you until you put them on!’ He sing-songed.

England took a deep, slow breath, one that might be taken by a yoga mum trying not to rage at her bratty children, and bit out: “fine,”

“But only because it’s the quickest way to shut you up!”

Neither moved.

“Turn around.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before—”

“Turn around, or get out Antonio!”

“Ok, ok…”

Spain fidgeted impatiently whilst he heard the rustle of clothes and clanging of metal behind him.

“There, happy? We’re going back downstairs now.”

Spain turned back and hummed brightly at the sight. He had to admit, this get-up had always suited Arthur, the bold colourings, hard-edged sword and leather boots proudly displayed the dangerous greed and unpredictable violence that had once consumed England. And the glinting embellishments, ruffled shirt and floppy feathers in the hat spoke of a former wild playfulness, of which Antonio was sure was just buried under etiquette, and not lost entirely.

And all this was made even better by their swapped coats. England in the uniform of Spain, it was weirdly thrilling.

Antonio didn’t know if it made Arthur look conquered, or conquering.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“Lead the way” Spain gestured out the door.


	2. Who's there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's short forgive me peeps

“I still don’t understand.”

Spain tilted his head to one side and said,  
“Understand what, amigo?”

“Why you’re here, and not crying in your own home.”

“Well, first of all, I’m no longer in that negative head-space—”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“—and secondly, I, ... I just thought ...”

“Spit it out.”

“I don’t know why! It was just an urge! There was no one else offering any sympathy, Romano doesn’t care in the slightest about my history, Portugal is on your side, Prussia just talks about his own battles, France just—”

“The Frog doesn’t need a mention in this house.”

“—laughs at me...”

“And you thought you’d get sympathy from me?”

“No, I thought that we could put water under the bridge...you know, maybe swapping our coats can be...symbolic?”

“Sure”

“Don’t be sarcastic, I’m trying to have a heartfelt conversation here”

Arthur tried his best to glare some sense into the other country.

“I was serious! I don’t care! It’s history, I don’t dwell on my empire anymore, you shouldn’t either.”

With that Spain seemed to snap out of the sombre misery he’d plunged into, and perked back up into his old cheery self. He beamed again, this time with a full row of perfect, white teeth showing, and, to Arthur’s alarm, started to approach with his arms spread as if he wanted a...hug.

England stiffened with awkward tension as Spain wrapped strong, tanned arms around his torso.

“What are you doing?” came the strangled voice of embarrassment.

“We, are embracing.”

Arthur moved to pushed Antonio away with his palms but Spain tightened his hold, until the blond sighed, not as vexed as he thought he’d be, and gave up his struggle.

“...why do you have to say ‘embracing’ like we’re lovers...?”

“Why do you have to be so stuffy? It wouldn’t hurt to be a little more romantic.”

England spluttered,  
“Well, maybe I would be in a romantic circumstance, which this is not! Why do you romance countries always have to make everything so mushy??”

“It not mush, it’s passion!”

“I don’t want to feel your passion.”

Spain smirked suggestively, and widened his stance to squeeze one of England’s thighs between his own.  
“Are you sure, mi amor??”

“Yes!”

This time Arthur’s shove had force, and it toppled Spain backwards onto his sofa. Unfortunately for Arthur, Antonio’s legs held a firm grip on his own, and Arthur came tumbling down with him and landed heavily on top of his chest, which almost winded both nations.

By the time they had caught their breath, they noticed the intimate position they’d landed in. Spain had both knees raised and sandwiching Arthur’s legs, and his warm breath carded itself through the blond’s soft fringe. Arthur’s head had nestled into the crook of Spain’s neck, so that his wet pants caressed the skin like little kisses, meanwhile, his hand had been caught trapped in-between their bodies, in particular their groins.

Arthur raised his head look at the other, and narrowed his eyes at the guilty twinkle in Spain’s eyes which told him that the slight hardness beneath his hand was not imagined.

“This really wasn’t my end-game” Antonio promised, with a crooked smile.

“Is this because of the outfits” Arthur asked flatly, but with simmering humour.

Both let mirth flood into their expressions before joint laughter, loud and guffawing, rang out in England’s sitting room.

“I can think of a few other times we’ve been in this position with these clothes on...”

Ah, Spain just ~knew~ England’s playfulness only needed prompting.

“Fuck it” he decided, and dragged Arthur’s head down, for his lips to meet his own.


End file.
